The man tilts his wide brim hat away from the sun. His collapses in his old rocking chair that
always sat loyally on the uneven, decomposing deck. It was mid morning and he had already
fed the cattle. He was now resting his clammy hand on the chest pocket of his shirt where
the harmonica of many generations now sleeps softly, patiently, waiting to entertain. He
opens the narrow pocket with his fingers and clasps the harmonica.
His rough hands cup the smooth silver plate to his mouth. His few teeth left and bare gums
feel the cold metal touch them. The tune fell from the instrument as the man’s fingers played
the harmonica perfectly, not missing a beat. His eyes closed tightly and he threw his head
in the air like a horse showing off his mane. The cattle’s ears pricked up as they looked away
from their cud. For some time the man played to his cattle. But then pulled the harmonica
away from his mouth and placed it back in his pocket close to his heart so he would never forget the
power of music.
War
As l lie in my trench, steady pitter patters drum on my helmet.
The clouds tears fall upon the battle field mixing with the slosh of brown and red.
They hang low miserably, drowning any spirits left in anyone.
The sounds of gun fires echo in my ears.
All my skin pores are filled with mud and my heart is filled with shame and sorrow.
When l first arrived into battle hope sparked as every innocent man l shot with a family
just like me, fell to the ground wounded,
but now this act is a shameful routine.
My scars of war burrow embroidered into my mind and soul.
The pain will never ease.
The flash backs of watching soldiers lives end will never stop.
The sound of my nervous jumpy heart beat will never be forgotten.
Why did this happen.
Because we fought for our lives, our friends and families.
But mostly for the triumph for our country.
The Harmonica
The man tilts his wide brim hat away from the sun. His collapses in his old rocking chair thatalways sat loyally on the uneven, decomposing deck. It was mid morning and he had already
fed the cattle. He was now resting his clammy hand on the chest pocket of his shirt where
the harmonica of many generations now sleeps softly, patiently, waiting to entertain. He
opens the narrow pocket with his fingers and clasps the harmonica.
His rough hands cup the smooth silver plate to his mouth. His few teeth left and bare gums
feel the cold metal touch them. The tune fell from the instrument as the man’s fingers played
the harmonica perfectly, not missing a beat. His eyes closed tightly and he threw his head
in the air like a horse showing off his mane. The cattle’s ears pricked up as they looked away
from their cud. For some time the man played to his cattle. But then pulled the harmonica
away from his mouth and placed it back in his pocket close to his heart so he would never forget the
power of music.
War
As l lie in my trench, steady pitter patters drum on my helmet.
The clouds tears fall upon the battle field mixing with the slosh of brown and red.
They hang low miserably, drowning any spirits left in anyone.
The sounds of gun fires echo in my ears.
All my skin pores are filled with mud and my heart is filled with shame and sorrow.
When l first arrived into battle hope sparked as every innocent man l shot with a family
just like me, fell to the ground wounded,
but now this act is a shameful routine.
My scars of war burrow embroidered into my mind and soul.
The pain will never ease.
The flash backs of watching soldiers lives end will never stop.
The sound of my nervous jumpy heart beat will never be forgotten.
Why did this happen.
Because we fought for our lives, our friends and families.
But mostly for the triumph for our country.
Charlotte Minnis
Yr 8
21.4.10